Page 99 of Coach
This was jagged and dizzying. It made me want to speed up and slow down at the same time, like someone was pressing my fast-forward and rewind buttons all at once, and all my tape could do was squeal in protest.
Great. I was thinking about cassette tapes while driving to my doom. Just great.
I tried to calm myself, focus on the road.
Lights blurred past.
Mateo stayed behind me, never tailgating yet never lagging, just . . . trusting me to lead.
That did something to my chest, too.
I should’ve turned left. The bar was a few blocks back. We zipped by another restaurant on the right. I missed it, never even thought about slowing or pulling into the lot. My mind was a blur, a whirling dervish of angels and demons forever at war over my hopes and desires, neither of which I chose to acknowledge or allow space on my mental stage.
Until then.
So, I drove on.
And the next thing I knew, we were pulling into my own driveway.
What the hell are we doing here?I asked myself, blinking at my shop before shifting my gaze to the house some fifty paces across the yard. This hadn’t been the plan. We were getting a drink.
You have alcohol inside, a voice, accented in Italian, whispered in my head.
Great, now I was hearing phantom European hotties urging me toward . . . something very dangerous.
I parked, killed the engine, and sat there like a jackass staring at the front of my own house, wondering when the hell I’d decided to bring him into my personal space, my private kingdom, the place I never—and I meannever—let anyone into. Stevie practically lived with me, but she didn’t count. She was Stevie. She was family.
Mateo . . . he was . . . just some guy I’d been out with a time or three. What the hell was I doing?
A tap on the window startled me.
Mateo grinned through the glass, his teeth so damn white, his smile so fucking perfect and bright and . . .
“So, drinks at your place? Or did I lose you in a game-day fugue state?”
I rolled down the window and stared at him, still half dazed.
“I don’t know what a fugue state is,” I muttered, unsure what else I should say.
His grin broadened, and I swear his eyes twinkled. Fucking Italian.
“Guess I got lost in thought. My truck knows the way home,” I muttered, offering a weak—no, pathetic—smile. “There’s a place just up the street if you’d—”
“Here is fine. As long as you have alcohol, I’m good.”
And for the first time in longer than I could remember, the thought of letting someone inside my home didn’t make me want to bolt.
It made me want to open the damn door.
Chapter 33
Mateo
Shane’s truck slowed, blinkers flashing as he turned into a gravel driveway flanked by tall trees and a mailbox that looked like it had survived a tornado or three. I followed, blinking at the unexpected detour.
He parked and . . . just sat there. I waited. Still, he didn’t move.
“Well, this is awkward,” I mumbled to myself, unhooking my seat belt and climbing out of my car.
